" "Gem'men o' the votch!" cried Sharples, as loudly as a wheezy cough would permit him, "my noble pris'ner—ough! ough;—the Markis o' Slaughterford ——" Further speech was cut short by a volley of execrations from the angry guardians of the night. Why were you following Valade?’ She shrugged and turned away, moving as if to seek escape among the bookshelves all about one corner of the room. Then he took the pulse.
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